


I Am The Crime

by sysrae



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Bad Decisions, Canon Compliant, Cole vs emotional context, DAMN YOU ALL, Dorian Hates Himself, Dorian is bad at feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Krem and Vivienne give good advice, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Assault, Suicidal Ideation, bull is awesome, conspicuous use of canon dialogue, meaningful baths, mostly - Freeform, noncon is Dorian/OMC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 16,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rejected by the Inquisitor, Dorian needs a distraction. What he finds is the Iron Bull and a lot of useless feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It started as such things often did: with a series of ill-advised flirtations. The Herald of Andraste was a powerful man, and Dorian was attracted to power in all its permutations. Even had the Inquisitor been a haggard greybeard and as dour as Blackwall, his impressive trinity of magical, physical and political strengths would still have caught Dorian’s interest, but when combined with beauty and youth and easy good humour – well. His attraction was as easy a thing as falling off a cliff, with an outcome just as inevitable.

Maxwell’s rejection didn’t hurt more for being unrelated to Dorian’s gender, though had that been the case, it might have been somehow easier. Drinking with the Chargers, in response to Sera’s teasing, Max had made it plain that he bedded both men and women; without that knowledge, Dorian would never have been so forward in the first place. It wasn’t even, Max admitted, that he found Dorian unappealing, but rather that he’d fallen head over heels for Josephine, and what sort of man would Dorian be, to begrudge him such a partner? The Ambassador, with her coy, sharp wit and clever beauty, was eminently preferable to a disgraced Tevinter mage. It still stung, of course, but whatever Dorian might have hoped, deep down, he’d never expected anything different.

The better to distract himself, he looked elsewhere.

And found the Iron Bull.

He’d noticed the Qunari before, of course: regardless of his feelings for the Inquisitor, Bull was hardly inconspicuous. He took up so much space that, even without the attractions of that broad, bare chest and knowing smirk, the eye was natively drawn to him. The size of his hands alone… even missing two fingers, his motions were deft and skilful, no trace of brute strength or clumsiness. Confronted with such a physical presence, it was easy to justify staring as curiosity; to pretend away the significance of a sense of humour that swung between dry and filthy like a weathervane, and with everything he’d heard about Qunari growing up, why shouldn’t Dorian stare his fill? Surely any scholar might wonder if those sweeping horns were rough or smooth; if certain hidden features were proportional to the rest. Bull was convenient, nothing more, and sooner or later, Dorian would move on.

Except that Bull noticed him noticing, and opted to make a game of it. Subtly, at first – flexing his muscles, trying to wink his single eye and grinning at the failed effect – but when Dorian didn’t stop, he upped the ante, steadily dropping innuendos into their regular banter.

‘That staff is in pretty good shape, Dorian,’ Bull said one day, smirking at him after a battle. ‘You spend a lot of time polishing it?’

Dorian snorted; it was hardly an original quip, and nothing he hadn’t heard before. Yet barely an hour later, he found himself engaging in kind, some stupid line about Bull preferring him bound and leashed – to which Bull, without missing a beat, replied, ‘I’d buy you dinner first.’

‘Hopefully before you sewed my mouth shut,’ Dorian shot back.

Bull laughed. ‘Depends on how much you keep yapping,’ he said, but there was no heat in it, and Dorian was shocked to find himself smiling.

The following day, they began the long trek back to Skyhold, clearing a path through a seemingly endless stretch of dragonlings, Red Templars and the undead in weather foul enough to feel like divine punishment. It frayed all their tempers, putting an end to any but all the most vital conversations, and inasmuch as he gave thought to anything beyond putting one foot in front of the other, Dorian forgot their game. Then, barely three days out from Skyhold, a particularly vicious, close-quarters battle to close a Fade rift almost saw the two of them come to blows. Blinded by mud, both Bull and Dorian picked the same target, each unaware that the other had done so: the demon dodged, and Bull’s charge saw him crash into Dorian, harness singed from the mage’s fireblast. They went down in a shouting tangle, angry limbs and flailing weapons, and when they struggled back up again, it was to find that Max had already finished it for them, green hand glowing brightly as the rift popped out of existence.

‘ _Fasta vass!_ ’ Dorian shouted at Bull. ‘I could’ve burned you alive!’

‘You burn _me_?’ roared Bull. ‘I nearly took your head off!’

 The resultant squabble travelled with them, both Sera and Max too tired to intervene. Dorian felt shaky, strange: he’d never harmed an ally before, and the close call with Bull had rattled him beyond his ability to let it go. As they finally trudged into their chosen campsite, Dorian lapsed into furious silence, glaring at the burned leather straps of Bull’s harness.

‘Quite the stinkeye you’ve got going, Dorian,’ Bull said, not without bite. He was pitching his tent, and something about the normalcy of it somehow made things worse.

‘You stand there, flexing your muscles, huffing like some beast of burden, with no thought save conquest!’ _You could’ve died!,_ Dorian almost added, but bit it back with a snap of teeth. He was angry at Bull, not worried for him; better to keep that clear.

Abandoning the tent, Bull turned and pushed into Dorian’s space, hands clenching by his sides. ‘That’s right,’ he growled. ‘These big, muscled hands could tear those robes off while you struggled, helpless in my grip. I’d pin you down, and as you gripped my horns, I would _conquer_ _you_.’      

Dorian froze, drymouthed and staring.

‘Um,’ he said, faintly. ‘What?’

Bull jerked at that, like he’d managed to shock himself, too. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Is that not where we’re going?’

‘No!’ said Dorian. ‘It was very much _not_!’

‘Oh,’ said Bull again, rubbing at the back of his neck. ‘Right. Sorry.’

And just like that, he turned back to his stupid tent, leaving Dorian flushed and, somewhat shamefully, thrilled.

Not that his arousal was specific to Bull, of course, no matter how compelling that deep, rough voice could be. It was a natural response: they’d been weeks in the wilderness, the combination of shared tents and Sera’s observant mockery making private release impossible, never mind that Dorian had been pent-up even before then, pining after Max. If he was on a hair trigger, it was nothing to do with anyone but himself.

Mercifully, neither Max nor Sera brought the incident up, though the archer made plenty of suggestive faces whenever the Inquisitor’s back was turned. Slowly, over the course of the next day’s journey, Bull and Dorian eased back into their previous banter, leaning on the time-honoured tradition of mocking their respective homelands.     

‘I’m just saying, Dorian,’ Bull said – voice maddeningly calm, a crooked smile on his face – when the mage next rose to his bait. ‘You carry around this picture of the Qunari in your mind. Like, you see us as this forbidden, terrible thing, and you’re inclined to do the forbidden.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ huffed Dorian, who had _every_ idea, and fervently wished he didn’t.

Bull shrugged, smile widening incrementally. ‘All I’m saying is, you ever want to explore that, my door’s always open.’

Sera cackled loudly, though Dorian didn’t respond. He told himself he wasn’t really interested; that Bull was fine to look at, but not someone he’d take to bed.

The next day, they made it to Skyhold.

 

*

 

The Iron Bull was good at reading people, but that didn’t mean he was never surprised by them. Take Max, for instance: the Inquisitor hadn’t exactly hidden his feelings for Josephine, but up until a few days before that last mission started, Bull had still figured that Dorian was in the running, too. The way the mage looked at him – hell, the way the mage _looked_ , period – it would’ve taken a stronger man than Bull to turn down such an obvious invitation; but then, he supposed, most humans were odd about sex.

Which was why, once he noticed the other man staring, he took to needling Dorian so openly. Contrary to popular opinion, the Iron Bull did actually understand subtlety: given the chance, he could sly-flirt with the best of them. But as just that sort of ambiguous interest was seemingly responsible for Max and Dorian misunderstanding each other in the first place – and as Dorian, whatever his pique, consistently gave as good as he got – the Bull thought a more direct approach was better. Either Dorian would go for it, or he wouldn’t, but whatever his choice, he couldn’t be in any doubt that he’d really been propositioned.

And, well. Bull would be lying to say it wasn’t fun.

By enthusiastic tradition, the first night back in Skyhold involved drinks all round and a riotous call for stories. Bull sat with the Chargers and indulged in both, but even well into his cups, he never quite looked away from Dorian, who never quite looked away from him. That day in camp after they’d nearly killed each other, he hadn’t meant to get so intense, and despite the quips they’d traded since then, he still wasn’t sure if he’d scared the ‘vint off entirely. Casual sex was one thing, but Bull’s word-picture was all about play that hinged on trust, and Dorian Pavus, whatever else could be said of him, didn’t trust easily.   

 When Bull finally stood to leave from the night, it took conscious effort not to watch for Dorian’s reaction; to climb the stairs to his room, alone, and wait to see if he stayed that way.

Minutes passed, and Bull was on the brink of getting into bed when he finally heard footsteps, followed shortly thereafter by sharp knock on the open door. Bull grinned, aroused and pleased, and when he turned, there was Dorian. The mage’s cheeks were flushed with a mix of beer and bravado, his pretty eyes kohl-lined, and though he constantly complained about the southern cold, now as always, he looked nothing but warm to Bull, all golden skin and shiny clothes and rings that gleamed like candlelight.

‘I find myself in the market for a forbidden, terrible thing,’ said Dorian, with just a hint of swallow beneath the smirk.

Gravely, Bull said, ‘I do a good line in those.’

Dorian raised his chin in challenge. ‘Show me, then. Hawk me your wares.’

Faster than the mage could anticipate, Bull shut the door by shoving Dorian up against it, kissing him hard and deep. Dorian moaned into his mouth, hands clutching at his shoulders, firm body melting against him. Bull broke the kiss, but didn’t move, their foreheads barely brushing.

‘Like this?’ he murmured, needing to hear him say it.

‘Just so,’ Dorian gasped, and pulled back him in by the horns.

Bull let him do it, big hands gripping Dorian’s hips. For a moment, he considered asking the ‘vint for a watchword, but especially the first time, that sort of thing was better done sober, and anyway, Bull didn’t want to risk him leaving.

Instead, he slid his palms beneath Dorian’s thighs and _lifted_ , thrilling as the other man arched filthily against him, using Bull’s horns for leverage. Bull squeezed his ass, chuckling at Dorian’s breathy moan, then turned and dropped him on the mattress. Dorian yelped and bounced, and then Bull was on him again, lacing their fingers together before tugging Dorian’s hands above his head, pinning him in place.

‘Look at you,’ he murmured, nipping at Dorian’s ear. ‘All laid out for me.’

‘Hard not to be,’ Dorian panted, flexing against his grip. ‘You’re everywh- _ah_!’

Bull grinned, rutting slowly against him, savouring the way that Dorian pushed up into the contact. ‘You want me to stop, you say so,’ he said, kissing the mage’s neck. ‘Otherwise, I’m going to unwrap you, suck you and fuck you, preferably in that order. That sound good, ‘vint?’

‘ _Yes_ ,’ he breathed, ‘Maker, please –’

Bull set to with a will, revelling in Dorian’s responsiveness. Even clothed, the mage was desperate to be touched, and though he wanted to get him naked, Bull couldn’t resist stroking him through his finery first, letting the fabric drag against Dorian’s skin. Dorian flushed and struggled, pretty as a present, moaning as Bull alternated kissing him with murmured, filthy praise. _Gorgeous, glorious; bet you taste like fire, Dorian. Are you wet for me? I’m wet for you. That’s it, let go. Always dressed so proper, and no wonder; you love the feel of it, silks and leather, satin and lace. Bet I could get you off like this, just hold you down and let you rub off against me. You want that?_

‘ _Kaffas_!’ Dorian swore, writhing and desperate as Bull pinched his nipples through his shirt, teasing him into incoherence. As Dorian started to grab at him, Bull pinned his wrists overhead again, his free hand roaming his body.

Dorian came for the first time with his face buried in Bull’s neck, still fully clothed and straining against him, heels dug into his thighs. Bull kissed his temple, tasting sweat, then carefully lent back, admiring the fruits of his labour.

‘There, now,’ he said, rubbing Dorian’s thigh. ‘We’re off to a pretty good start, huh?’

Dorian tried to glare at him, but the effect was somewhat ruined by how heavily he was breathing. ‘You haven’t even undressed us yet, you barbarian.’

‘Apologies,’ Bull rumbled, and after shucking his own scant clothes, he promptly set about stripping Dorian. Knowing how the ‘vint felt about his precious wardrobe, Bull took his time with the buckles and ties, setting each piece carefully aside, kissing and stroking the newly bared skin. Dorian’s smallclothes, however, he deliberately tossed away, smirking at their ruined state. The mage’s eyes narrowed in protest, but before he could speak, Bull bent down and tongued his cock, determined to lick it clean.

The noise Dorian made as he bucked up into Bull’s mouth was wanton, gorgeous. Bull groaned in response, pinning Dorian’s hips to the bed as he worked him back to hardness. His own cock was heavy and aching, but Bull ignored it, growling appreciation as Dorian gripped the sensitive skin at the base of his horns and _squeezed_ , nails dragging along their length. Bull was good with his tongue, he knew, and when Dorian startled babbling in desperate Tevene, he redoubled his efforts, swallowing and sucking until the ‘vint spent straight down his throat.

Only then did Bull pull off, grinning smugly. If Dorian had looked dishevelled before, it was nothing to how he was now: chest sheened with sweat and visibly trembling, pupils blown with lust.

‘ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ,’ he gasped. ‘Maker, just give me – give me a minute –’ He stared at Bull’s cock, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and Bull, unable to resist, leaned in and kissed him, letting Dorian taste himself. The mage whimpered, shaky hands cradling Bull’s jaw.

‘Still want to take me?’ Bull murmured, kissing the hollow of Dorian’s throat. ‘You can always tap out, if you’re tired.’

Dorian gave a strangled laugh. ‘Surrender to a Qunari? Never. But, ah.’ He blinked dazedly. ‘You might have to roll me over for it. My legs seem not to be working.’

‘Heh. I Must be doing something right, then.’ Pulling a pillow down to go under Dorian’s hips, Bull flipped him gently onto his stomach, marvelling at the lean play of muscles along his back.

Then, snagging a vial of oil from beside the bed, he settled back between Dorian’s thighs. Murmuring appreciation, he ran a palm over the frankly magnificent curve of the mage’s ass and set about slicking his fingers.

As come-drunk as Dorian was, he was easy to prep, so laxly fucked out ahead of actually being fucked that Bull felt a swell of pride. Even so, he didn’t skimp, pausing only to stroke himself from time to time. For all he’d been in a hurry, there was something utterly glorious about taking his time with Dorian, watching him come undone again and again. Dorian groaned, hips rutting against the pillow whenever Bull grazed his sweet spot, and by the time he finally eased into him, Dorian was pleading with him to hurry.      

‘I’ve got you,’ Bull murmured, stroking a hand along Dorian’s spine. ‘Taking me so sweetly, Dorian, _fuck_ –’ He broke off, sliding all the way in, and took a moment to breathe himself down from the brink, his forehead pressed to the nape of Dorian’s neck.

And then he began to fuck him, deep and slow and steady. Bull knew he was big, had always had to be careful with his partners, but after such a torturous build-up, it was all he could do not to snap his hips and let loose. Instead, he twined their fingers together, nipping the shell of Dorian’s ear, focussing on the scent and sight and slick of the man beneath him.

‘Think you can come again, Dorian? Third time’s the charm.’

‘I – _ah_! Ah, ah – _venhedis_ , Bull, please, harder, _please_ –’

Bull groaned and rolled his hips, and it was like a damn breaking: beneath him, Dorian arched his back and pushed into every thrust, encouraging Bull to go faster, harder. Dropping Dorian’s hands, he hauled him up by the hips instead to find a different angle, sucking a bruising kiss into his shoulder.

‘Touch me,’ Dorian panted, ‘get a hand on me, fuck _, fuck_ –’

He came with a wail within three strokes, his body locking up. The pressure was incredible, perfect; Bull thrust into him, deep and hard, and came with a shudder, one arm wrapped around Dorian’s chest, the other hand gripping his hair. They were pressed together, slick and sweaty, the mage’s arms shaking with strain.

‘So good.’ Bull kissed the back of his neck, hands petting down Dorian’s flanks as he carefully pulled out. Dorian groaned, and the pair of them collapsed to the mattress, chest to back, incapable of movement. Bull lay there, stunned, awash with afterglow, and somehow managed to rasp out, ‘That satisfy your curiosity any, ‘vint?’

‘Thoroughly,’ croaked Dorian, and promptly fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Dorian woke beside the Bull, an arm thrown over his back. A lone candle guttered on the nightstand, casting the room in a soft, faint glow, while outside, the sky was barely beginning to lighten, grey as old metal. Dorian blinked and groaned, and in a rush, the things they’d done came back to him: the feel of Bull above, within, how many times he’d come.

Overwhelmed, he shut his eyes again.

In the rare moments when Dorian had consciously let himself think about bedding Bull, he’d pictured it rough, humiliating: even before that day in camp, the Qunari had hardly been subtle about his inclinations, and in Dorian’s experience, _conquest_ meant he’d be ridden hard and put away wet, degraded and sore and used. The idea that he might have such pleasures free of shame had never occurred to him; he’d grown so used to the confluence that sifting them was reflex. So long as he also got what he wanted, Dorian could endure a great deal in bed; and as such, what he wanted, he usually got, albeit for a price.

But wanting or not, he hadn’t expected _that_ – not from anyone, and certainly not from Bull, who’d proved to be far gentler than anyone so massive had a right to be.

Sluggish and tired, Dorian sat up. Beside him, the Bull breathed deep and easy, scarred ribs rising and falling. It was only then, as he cast about for his clothes, that Dorian realised his own conspicuous lack of discomfort. Despite the state in which he’d fallen asleep, he wasn’t grimed or tacky with come, but clean and warm and dry. Dorian stared at the sleeping Qunari, a strange lump in his throat. Rather than leave him messy, Bull had wiped him clean of oil and seed and sweat, and lightly enough that Dorian hadn’t woken.

He hadn’t expected that, either.

Absurdly, his heart began to pound. He stood, braced to find himself hurt in other ways, but though he was tender, lightly bruised at wrist and hip, the only ache he felt was pleasant – deep, but lacking the burn of damage, and demonstrably bloodless. It rattled him, though he couldn’t articulate why. _You got what you came for,_ he told himself. _And this is the part where you leave._

Dressing hastily in the darkness, Dorian fled with his boots in hand and his smallclothes lost. Nobody saw him return to his room, and his sheets, when he slipped between them, were cold.

 

*

 

'So,' said Bull, eyeing the mage across the bar of the Herald's Rest. 'Dorian. About last night –'

 He paused, well aware of the slackjawed look on Max's face, the unbridled mirth on Sera's, the way that Dorian suddenly went from calm to tense. A part of him – a very small part – felt bad at that, but not enough to stop unless the mage tapped out. By Qunari standards, Bull was a master of cultural sensitivity, but it itched at him, how uptight 'vints could be about this stuff. Regardless of whether Dorian ever slept with him again, he wanted to show that he wasn't ashamed of what they'd done: that Dorian didn't have to hide. Which, yes, fell squarely into the realm of making a choice _for_ Dorian instead of _with_ him, but as the mage had left before dawn without any pleas for secrecy, he figured he was within his rights to make that call himself.

And besides, Dorian knew full well that Bull didn't keep his partners secret. If he'd wanted to be an exception, he should've said so.

'Discretion isn't your thing, is it?' Dorian sighed, when everyone continued to stare at him. _Sighed_ , Bull noted, but didn't swear, or deny, or fight. He blushed a little, certainly, but that was it, and so he let himself enjoy the game of provocation. It had, after all, been a night worth bragging about.

'Three times!' he boasted, winking his single eye at Krem, who groaned audibly. And then, to Dorian, 'Also, do you want your silky underthings back, or did you leave those like a token? Or – wait. Did you “forget” them, so you'd have an excuse to come back? You sly dog!'

Dorian flinched, but so minutely that only Bull noticed, covering the reaction with a sip of his beer. Silence ticked out as Dorian lowered his glass and said, in his arch Tevinter drawl, 'If you choose to leave your door unlocked like a savage, I may or may not come.'

'Speak for yourself,' Bull answered, grinning lasciviously.

Varric burst out laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

It was hateful, Dorian thought, how badly he wanted to sleep with the Iron Bull again. Having stomped up to the Qunari's room to reclaim his lost smallclothes, and despite the other man's laughter in the face of his snark, he still went drymouthed when one of those large, scarred hands closed over his own, the calloused touch absurdly light.

'You know,' Bull rumbled, gentle mirth in his single eye, 'it seems a waste, you going again so soon.' 

'Who said I was going?' Dorian shot back. He hadn't planned on anything of the sort – had only wanted to put the Bull on the back foot for once – but at the expression of startled pleasure that crossed Bull's face, he found he meant every word of it. Maker, but last night had been good, and all at once, Dorian was seized by the urge to repay the Bull in kind; to leave him feeling just as shamefully desperate as Dorian himself. Before the Bull could respond – or worse, before Dorian could second-guess himself – he dropped the smallclothes and shoved Bull backwards, thrilling at how easily the Qunari gave way before him. Bull grunted as his knees hit the bedframe, sitting down heavily, mouth hanging open as Dorian once more gripped his horns and swung up onto his lap.

'Damn, 'vint,' Bull breathed. 'I didn't know you had it in you.'

Dorian smirked. 'I don't have it in me,' he said, ' _yet_ ,' and kissed Bull hard and wickedly, shuddering with pleasure as those big hands found his hips.   

Dorian ground down against him, writhing as they kissed. They were both hard, rutting against each other through their clothes, but they’d already played that particular game to completion, and Dorian had something else in mind. Waiting until Bull made a particularly satisfying noise, Dorian released his horns and slipped between the bracket of Bull’s big, strong thighs, kneeling prettily as he knew how. Panting just a little in anticipation, he looked up through his lashes and said, as silkily as he could manage, 'Pull those ridiculous trousers down, or I'll burn them right off you.'

Bull groaned and complied, lifting his hips just enough to release the trapped fabric. Dorian dragged it the rest of the way, then sat a moment, contemplating the sight before him. Viewed from that angle, it seemed impossible that he'd taken the Bull so easily the night before: he really was huge, and it likely said something about the inherent perversity of Dorian's nature that, even sober, he was more excited than deterred by the challenge.

'Hey,' the Bull said, softly. Dorian blinked and looked up, startled into a sharp inhale as Bull reached down and cupped his cheek. 'It's okay to change your mind. You know that, right?' His thumb grazed Dorian's lip as he said it, stroking up and down.

Leashed heat coiled in Dorian's belly. 'I know,' he said, and leaned in to suck him, savouring the taste of precome. Bull’s hand moved from Dorian's cheek to the back of his head, though lightly, barely connecting. Only when Dorian reached up with his own hand, encouraging the contact, did Bull's big fingers slide through his hair and _grip_. Dorian moaned and started to suck in earnest, one hand on the base of Bull's cock, the other on his own. He'd always been turned on by doing this, by the vulnerability of it, but something about the Bull's awareness of that fact made him feel simultaneously both safer and more exposed, his own arousal building with unprecedented speed.

'Dorian,' Bull groaned above him, and when Dorian looked up, the expression on Bull's face was almost reverent. Jaw aching, Dorian took him as deep as he could, throat and fingers working in perfect tandem. He slid and sucked, the sound of it obscene, moaning whenever Bull tugged his hair. Pleasure sparked his nerves, and though Bull tried to warn him before he came, Dorian didn't pull off. His own release hit him as he swallowed, sudden enough that he almost choked. Bull's hand lifted, worry replaced by wonder when he saw the real cause, and for a moment, they stared at each other, flushed and spent and panting. Then Bull's thumb wiped a telltale smear from Dorian’s mouth, and without thinking, Dorian leaned in and sucked it clean, tongue curling against the digit.

Bull inhaled sharply, eyes blown wide, and all at once, Dorian's heart was pounding. Something about the gesture felt too intimate, as though he’d betrayed himself. _Kaffas_ , hadn’t the point been making Bull want, instead of addicting himself? Yet even as he stood and relaced his leathers, part of him wanted nothing more than to stay.

'Well,' he said instead, proud of how calm he sounded; of how easily he hid the thought, despite the roughened, fucked-out quality of his voice. 'That was certainly instructive.'

'Dorian –'

'Good night, Bull.' It came out softer than he'd intended; he bit his lip, turned on his heel and left, the door slipping shut behind him.

 It was only once he returned to his room that he realised he'd forgotten his smallclothes again.

 

*****

 

Dorian's abrupt departure flustered Bull badly; he didn't know what to do with it. Too late, he realised that Dorian's acceptance of his open flirting didn't mean he understood why Bull was doing it or what it meant, and now the mage wouldn't look at him. Or not in the eye, at least: he still stared, but from a greater distance, looking away if Bull looked up and bristling with acid quips at the merest threat of banter. Max and the others noticed, of course, but for once in their lives, both Varric and Sera refrained from comment, which, if he'd needed another sign, was proof enough in itself of how badly Bull had fucked up. It didn't matter that Dorian's 'vint repression was ultimately the real culprit: Bull was the one who'd tried to goad him past it without really understanding how deep it went, or why, so he was the one who had to try and fix it.

Which, in the short term, meant giving Dorian space enough in which to be hurt, or angry, or whatever the hell else he was that meant he'd given Bull the best damn blowjob of his life, then fled like he regretted it. It was a new dilemma for Bull, who prided himself on finding out exactly what his partners wanted, then giving it to them: if he'd ever misread a situation or person as badly as he had the mage, he hadn’t been conscious of it. He hated that he’d failed at all, but worse, that he’d failed _Dorian_ , who hardly needed another reason to worry about sex.

So: space. _Give him space_ , Bull thought, and once he'd calmed down, they'd find a way to talk.

Then Dorian's father showed up in Redcliffe, and everything went to hell.


	4. Chapter 4

'He tried to _change_ me!'

Dorian's voice cracked on the words, shame hot in his throat, and rage, and grief. Dimly, he was aware of Sera's bristling outrage; of the Inquisitor's shock, slap-sharp; of the Iron Bull, deadly and frozen. Inwardly, some manic part of himself was laughing, wanting to yell at Halward Pavus that none of them met his standards for sexual normalcy: that Sera bedded women alone, while Max and Bull would have anyone. But he couldn't say it. Didn't dare. It wasn’t his truth to tell.

Audaciously, his father looked pained. 'I only wanted what was best for you –'

'You wanted the best for _you_. For your fucking legacy! Anything for that!'

'I think it's time we left,' Max growled.

'I agree,' croaked Dorian, and stormed outside, the others hard behind him. He walked blindly, furious, chest aching with the effort of not cracking apart. Nobody spoke, for which Dorian was dimly grateful. He could barely breathe, unable to stop himself replaying his father's betrayal over and over: wine and potion burning his mouth, the ugly scent of blood. He'd only escaped because the manacles Halward used on him had been made for elves, too small and old to withstand Dorian's panicked thrashing.

It had been decades, after all, since House Pavus chained its slaves. Once Dorian was safely out of Tevinter, the irony had reduced him to ugly sobbing.

His father had said the same then, too – _'It's for your own good!'_ – but desperately, either too frightened of Dorian or too ashamed of himself to fight once his son was free. As if anything that erased someone could be good for the one destroyed!

He made it three feet beyond Redcliffe's gates, then dropped to his knees and vomited. He retched and heaved, hot tears on his cheeks, and when he was done, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, hating that anyone at all should see him like this, let alone the Inquisitor; let alone Bull, when Dorian could barely meet his gaze.

'Here,' said Sera, voice as soft as Dorian had ever heard it. She hunkered down next to him, holding out a waterskin. 'Rinse the muck out, yeah?'

Dorian nodded, unable to form even so simple a word as _thanks._ He swilled the water, spat it out, then finally swallowed, long and deep, until the tears had stopped. Still wordless, he passed the waterskin back to Sera and stood. Stupidly, he found himself wishing that Bull would ignore the past few days and hold him, as though that could possibly help. Bull didn't, of course: just stood there looking equal parts angry and worried, while Max said nothing at all.

 _They think you’re weak._ It was an unworthy thought – his companions were better than that – but in the moment, Dorian was too raw not to be cut by it, hating himself so viscerally that he almost doubled over.

_And what does it matter anyway? The sky is broken, the world is ending, and even if they weren't, you don't deserve to be wanted. Why not just die and get it over with?_

A flash of white: pale skin, dark leather – Cole, materialising next to him. Sera yelped in outraged shock, but Dorian barely flinched.    

'You're hurting,' Cole said, in that whispery, spirit-poet voice that sounded like wind through ruins. 'Dorian, do you want me to make it stop?'

'No,' said Dorian, wishing he could unhear Bull's pained inhale at the question. 'No, Cole. Not like that.'

'But inside, you said –'

' _Kaffas_!' he snapped, resisting the urge to hug himself. 'Are we going to stand around until nightfall, or get moving? Not all of us can pop in and out of Skyhold on a whim!' And he started walking, forcing the others – including Cole, who didn't seem inclined to leave – to follow.

Thankfully, the spirit didn't renew his offer of help, though the questions he set about asking instead were arguably worse. Perhaps, thought Dorian sourly, he'd been taking interrogation lessons from Leliana; surely nothing else could explain how Cole, for all his innocence, unerringly found his sorest points and _pressed_.

'I'm hurting you, Dorian,' Cole said, just outside of camp. He sounded almost as miserable about it as Dorian felt, which was the only thing that kept Dorian from slapping him. 'Words winding, wanting, wounding. You said I could ask.'

'I know I did,' said Dorian. He'd been trying to show he was strong enough to make light of it, to accept the spirit's questions with an airy shrug and a savage laugh, but it hadn't worked, and now there was no undoing it. 'The things you ask are just... very personal.'

'But it hurts,' Cole said again. 'I want to help, but it's all tangled with the love, I can't tug it loose without tearing it. You hold him so tightly. You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are. Why would you do that?'

Dorian's stomach roiled. He wasn't brave enough for this. 'Can someone tell him to stop?' he snapped, as though he wasn't the only mage present. 'Banish him back to the Fade or _something_?'

Nobody answered.

'I'm sorry,' Cole said. He sounded horribly small, his gawky shoulders hunched. 'I keep making it worse.'

Dorian ran a hand down his face, abruptly exhausted. 'No, _I'm_ sorry,' he murmured. 'Of course you don't understand. Just... leave me with it for now.'

'Of course,' said Cole.

They entered the camp in silence.

Dorian went straight to his tent, and stayed there.

 

*

 

Later, after hours of sitting around the fire and conspicuously not discussing either Dorian's monstrous father or the reason for Cole's appearance, when Max and Sera were safely asleep and the spirit boy had taken himself off to wherever it was he went between dramas, Bull’s resolve snapped. He knew it was a bad idea to try and talk to Dorian, but he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving him alone.        

Moving quietly, Bull crossed over to Dorian's tent, then hesitated, surprised by the sound of conversation coming from inside. He didn't mean to eavesdrop, but his hearing was sharp, and the rawness of Dorian's voice tugged something in him, rooting him to the spot.

'I've been trying to imagine how to explain it to you, Cole. The thing is –' Dorian hesitated, and Bull could picture the look on his face all too clearly, '– sometimes, the ones you love are also the ones who disappoint you the most. You think that if they love you, they should understand. They shouldn't want to hurt you.' Bull clenched his fists at that, chest tightening with useless rage. 'So you feel betrayed. You say things you can't ever take back.'

'Get out,' said Cole, in the calm, detached tone that meant he was reciting thoughts. 'You are no son of mine.'

'Yes, like that,' said Dorian. His voice was soft and flat.

Equally soft, Cole said, 'He wishes he hadn't meant it.'

Bull stepped backwards, away from the tent. _I shouldn't have heard that,_ he thought, stomach churning. _It wasn't for me._

He fled to his tent, but sleep was a long time coming.


	5. Chapter 5

Dorian was avoiding Bull. They'd been back at Skyhold for nearly four days: he knew the Qunari wanted to talk to him, but as churlish and as cowardly as the refusal made him, he just couldn't stand to do it. He didn't want to be a pity-fuck, if that's the way Bull was leaning, but he didn't want to be rejected, either. As such, he avoided the Herald's Rest, and stubbornly didn't answer his door when someone who could only be Bull knocked on it after dark. He'd even planned contingencies for what should happen if Bull approached him in the library or some other place, but seemingly, the Qunari wasn't that desperate. The few times they caught sight of each other across the courtyard, Bull never pursued him, leaving Dorian to hurry guiltily off, eyes lowered.

He didn't want to talk to Bull. He _didn't_. But something had to change.

In the end, it was Cole, again, who proved his breaking point. He materialised at the foot of Dorian's bed while Dorian was dressing down for the evening, knotting his softest robe over the loose trousers and warm, worn shirt that were his concession to Skyhold's frigid nights. Dorian didn't quite jump at the intrusion, but it was a near thing. He rolled his eyes.

'Hello, Cole. Made much mischief today?'

'A little,' said Cole, 'though seldom with intent. You all have so many different needs, it's hard to help one without hurting another.'

'Isn't that the truth,' muttered Dorian. He looked the spirit up and down. 'Is there something particular you wanted, or is this a social call?'

'You're hurting less, but also more,' said Cole. 'You don't want to die, but you do _want_ , and the wanting makes you empty and cold, like a room you refuse to open.'

'Was there a question in there, somewhere?'

'Why don't you go to him, Dorian? You're not what you think you are.'

'And what is that?'

'Needy slut,' Cole said, and even knowing it was an echo, that Cole was only repeating words whose impact he didn't understand, Dorian still flinched. 'You love it just like this.'

Dorian shut his eyes. 'I think you should go now, Cole.'

'But you're not like that,' Cole said, puzzled. 'Rilienus, tan skin like fine whiskey, cheekbones shaded, lips curl when he smiles. He would have said yes.'

Dorian stopped breathing.

He sat down on the mattress, hard, and gripped his knees until his head stopped spinning. When he finally spoke, his voice was faint and strained. 'I'll... thank you not to do that again, please.'

'I don't understand,' said Cole, peering at him with worried blue eyes. 'I thought that would help. Why didn't it help?'

'Think of it like... like medicinal herbs,' said Dorian, suppressing hysterical laughter. 'It's not just the essence that matters; it's how you prepare and apply them. Otherwise, the same thing that cures might kill.'

'I think I see. I think... I have to think it through.'

'You do that,' said Dorian.

Cole nodded, and promptly vanished.

For several minutes, Dorian sat motionless, staring at the opposite wall. _Rilienus. He would have said yes_. The words dug into him like crossbow bolts. As if Dorian needed any more proof that he was broken, unworthy – of everything Cole could've said – and Maker, if it was true – if there was any chance Rilienus hurt enough, still, that Cole could feel it – Rilienus, who was _married_ – 

Dorian stood, his body taut as a wire. Scarcely conscious of himself, he left his room and went to Bull's, not bothering to knock. The door, as promised, was unlocked, with Bull himself hunched over a writing desk, scribing what was likely a Ben-Hassrath report. His horned head lifted at Dorian's entry, lone eye widening in surprise.

'Dorian,' he said. He set his pen down and stood, hands flexing awkwardly. 'And here I thought you'd been avoiding me.'

'I was,' said Dorian. ' I still am, technically.'

Curiosity flickered in Bull's face. 'You want something, then?'

'Yeah,' said Dorian. He was, he realised distantly, shaking. Lifting his chin, he stepped into Bull's personal space and said, 'I want you to fuck me, hurt me with it. No games, no false concern. Just do what you want, as rough as you want, so I can move on from this.'

For a long, tense moment, the Bull was silent. 'You... Dorian, I don't – do you really want me to hurt you? Because, if so, we need to set limits, a watchword –'

'I told you,' Dorian snapped, 'I don't want false concern! If you want to hurt me, then hurt me, but just stop –' he waved a hand, aggravated, '– whatever this is, and _do_ it!'

The Bull jerked back. 'Is that what you truly think of me?' he said, his voice a mix of pain and anger. 'Some brute Qunari who'd sooner take than give?'

' _Kaffas_! Will you shut up and fuck me?' His voice tore on the word. _Rilienus. He would have said yes_. 'Because if not, I'm sure I can find someone else in this benighted keep with low enough standards to do what you won't!'

'Dorian –'

'Varric might, if only for the novelty. Or Blackwall, if he's liquored up and can't get a girl. Any port in a storm, you know how Wardens are.' His voice was high in his own ears, strained and wrong. 'Or a stranger, maybe – Maker knows, we've brought in enough soldiers, there must be one or two who'd do the job –'

'Dorian, stop.' The Bull looked worried now, one hand hovering over Dorian's shoulder, as if he wanted to touch, but didn't quite dare. 'What's happened? What's wrong?'

' _I am_!' Dorian shouted, knocking Bull's hand away. ' _Fasta vass_ , isn't it obvious? What else am I for?' He swallowed, throat tight, and steeled himself. 'Do you want me or not?'

'Dorian –'

'Answer me!'

For a long moment, Bull was silent. Then, very slowly, every movement telegraphed, he scooped up Dorian's hands, kissed the knuckles of each, and let them fall again.

'No,' he said, gently. 'I'd do a lot of things for you, Dorian – or to you, even – but not that. Not what you're asking.'

Numbness settled on Dorian like snowfall. He nodded once, then stepped away. 'Very well,' he said, in a voice that was almost his normal one. 'My thanks for your honesty.'

Bull shook his head, a frustrated growl in his throat. 'You're not – Dorian, this isn't me rejecting you, do you understand that? Anyone who'd say yes to what you're asking doesn't deserve to be in room with you, let alone share your bed.'

'That's easy enough for you to say,' said Dorian, trying to smile. 'You're the first one to tell me no.'

And with that, he turned his back on the stricken Bull, and went off to get very drunk indeed.

 

*

'I know we just got back,' Bull said to the Inquisitor, shrugging his broad shoulders. 'Just – it's Qunari business, you know? Should try to keep on top of it. And besides, my boys need to stretch their legs. Too long up here and they'll start getting soft.'

Max considered, indulging in the pretence that Bull's sudden enthusiasm for the Storm Coast mission had nothing to do with Dorian. 'You make a compelling argument,' he said, favouring Bull with a sidelong glance. 'We could bring Cole, too, if you wanted. Keep him out of trouble.'

By which he meant, _keep him away from Dorian_. Bull nodded vigorous agreement: not that any of them especially liked having the spirit-boy in their heads, but after Cole shamefacedly confessed to having been responsible for Dorian first propositioning Bull in the ugliest, most fucked-up manner possible, then getting blackout drunk, he was willing to take one for the team.

'Works for me,' he said. 'Hell, we could even bring Viv along, too, try to track down those tomes she's after.'

Max smiled his crooked smile. 'I'll extend her an invitation'

They talked some more, Bull teasing Max about Josephine, the Inquisitor blushing appropriately, and then it was done, and Bull was left alone. He sat back down in his usual chair in the Herald's Rest and told himself that going was the right decision; that he couldn't do shit for Dorian until or unless the 'vint was willing to admit there was a problem. He pointedly didn't think about Dorian asking Bull to hurt him, the jagged, shaky way he'd said _you're the first one to tell me no_ , because even if it was true – even if that meant the worst, first thing that came to mind – it was brutally clear that Dorian didn't reckon consent the way Bull did, not for any lack of hard limits, but because he didn't seem to comprehend that a partner should respect them. The very notion set Bull’s teeth on edge, made him want to rip a hole into Dorian's past and kill every selfish, hurtful lover who'd made him feel that way.

'You all right there, boss?'

It was Krem, eyeing him from a respectful distance. Bull shook himself back to the present, blinking at his lieutenant.

'I'm fine. Just thinking about the Storm Coast job.'

'You were growling,' Krem said, somewhat doubtfully. 'Also, you're damaging the chair.'

Bull stared at his hands, and was shocked to realise this was true: his grip on the armrests was tight enough that he'd damn near splintered the wood. He let go, wondering at the strength of his own reaction. 'Sorry,' he mumbled, though he wasn't sure why or to whom he was really apologising. 'I, uh – guess it's just been a while since I reported in person.'

Krem hesitated a moment, then sighed. 'Look. Maybe I'm out of line, but speaking as a 'vint, you ought to know we're all pretty messed up, sex-wise, and in lots more ways than mine.' He coughed, darting a look like he was waiting for Bull to cut him off, then shrugged when it didn't happen. Blunt but adaptable: that was Krem all over. Bull felt an odd surge of pride. 'Not that I give much of a damn for our brooding altus,' Krem said, 'but I wouldn't recommend waiting for him to come to his senses. Knowing what you are is a different thing to knowing it shouldn't hurt.'

'You figured it out,' said Bull, with gruff affection.

Krem smiled his sly, pleased smile. 'Yeah, well. I'm exceptional. Later, boss. I'll let the Chargers know to get geared up.' And with that, he sauntered off, his hands shoved into his pockets.

Bull watched him go, then slowly let his head tip back, horns knocking against the wall. Grudgingly, he forced himself to admit the truth: that what he wanted from Dorian was something more than sex, though what exactly that was, he didn't know. He'd known the mage for months now, watched him not-so-subtly pine for the Inquisitor with what he'd imagined was impartial amusement, but which was really confusion as to why Max didn't take him up on the offer. Bull had slept with certain of his friends before, and even when there'd been complications, he hadn't felt invested the way he did now, like hurting Dorian, or Dorian hurting, was somehow the same as hurting himself.   

 ' _Anaan esaam Qun_ ,' he murmured. ' _Shok ebasit hissra_.' It ought to have been comforting, but the words rang hollow, sticking in his throat. Which didn't worry him nearly as much as it ought to have done, for all he'd lived for years as the Iron Bull.

 Perhaps this trip to the Storm Coast was a necessity, after all.


	6. Chapter 6

The news arrived ahead of the Inquisitor's party via courier bird, delivered to the rest of the inner circle by a sombre Josephine: that Bull was no longer Ben-Hassrath, but Tal-Vashoth, outcast forever. Reactions were mixed – unsurprisingly so, as few either understood or cared enough about Qunari customs to appreciate the enormity of it. Ironic, that Dorian should have the best grasp of what it meant. At least Dorian could go back to Tevinter, if he truly wanted; it wouldn't be easy or pleasant, but it was still a step up from exile.  

Hastening away from Josephine, who looked in the mood for one of her bruisingly personal conversations, Dorian took himself off for a long walk around the battlements. He was deeply fond of the Lady Montilyet, but just at that moment, he could barely stomach his own company, let alone anyone else's. Ever since his departure, Dorian had tried to believe he was done with the Iron Bull, but though he still felt sick at the Qunari's rejection – and it _was_ a rejection, no matter what Bull said: you didn't refuse a bedmate's offer of _anything_ if you still wanted _something_ from them – he couldn't stop blaming himself. _Kaffas_ , it wasn't as if their two times together constituted some torrid affair, no matter how good they’d been; there was no logical reason why it should hurt so much.

But then, as Cole had so delightfully reminded him, Dorian had always been a needy slut. If two times was all it took to make him like this, then that was his fault, not Bull's.

He stared down into the courtyard, watching the bustle of Skyhold's denizens. It was oddly soothing from on high: everything was rendered distant, colourful and patternless, as simple in remove as it never was up close. Absently, he let his gaze wander to the main gates, then blinked, surprised to see a party of riders dismounting. For a heart-stopping moment, he thought it was the Inquisitor and the others, but no: these were noblemen, by the looks of them, all bright silks and well-fed mounts, with Cullen and Josephine both on hand to greet them.

Had the Ambassador mentioned anything about visiting dignitaries during their earlier meeting? It was certainly possible, but once she'd delivered the news about Bull, Dorian had more or less tuned her out. Now, though, he felt powerfully inclined to embrace the potential distraction, and so went down to meet it.

A quick word with Cullen soon revealed that, while Josephine had indeed mentioned their guests – a party of nobles from Denerim, whose purpose in visiting had less to do with King Alistair and more to do with their own idle curiosity – they hadn't been expected until after the Inquisitor returned. Which left Josephine rather uncharacteristically flustered: not only were Max and Vivienne still en route home from the Storm Coast, but just that morning, Leliana had lit out with Cassandra and Varric to meet with one of their agents in the Hinterlands. Add in Cullen's sweat-dampened collar, signalling that the Commander was having one of his harder days of lyrium withdrawal, and the absence of the Iron Bull and the Chargers – who, if not exactly genteel company, could nonetheless be counted on to keep a party going – and Josephine's social arsenal was, bar Dorian himself, reduced to Sera, Solas and Blackwall, which was about as ideal a combination as custard and cowshit.

Ordinarily, Dorian made a point of avoiding Josephine's diplomatic soirées, having little patience for being insulted in one breath and exoticised in another, but the Ambassador's eyes were pleading, and he had enough on his conscience without adding to the burden. Taking a deep breath, he stepped away from Cullen, armoured himself with his best Minrathous smile, and bowed to the assembled nobles – two women, three men – all of whom were looking about with varying degrees of amusement.

'My dear lords and ladies! Welcome to Skyhold. My name is Dorian Pavus, formerly of Tevinter. My sincere apologies for our current lack of Inquisitor, to say nothing of other persons of interest; I understand that a heathen altus is something of a poor substitute, but hopefully what I lack in manners, I make up for in novelty. Would any of you care for a tour of works while your accommodation is made up, or should we skip straight to drinking?'

Both women and one of the men laughed, while the other two exchanged a meaningful glance. Dorian took that for a positive sign on balance, and waited politely, still smiling, as the man who'd laughed stepped forward. He looked to be some few years older than Dorian – which is to say, in his middle thirties – and therefore the eldest of the Fereldens. If not their leader in any official capacity, he nonetheless conveyed a sense of being the man in charge: he was strong and broad-shouldered, with sharp blue eyes and a lean, clean jaw, and his gaze flicked over Dorian in a way that was both assessing and, very faintly, sexual.

 _Oh_ , thought Dorian, blankly. _Oh_.

'I'm Bann Taron of Nineways,' he said. 'And these are my friends, Banns Adric and Natry of Flintwood –' he indicated the other men, both brown-haired and brown-eyed, who Dorian took to be brothers, '– Bann Savia of Gyre –' a sleek-looking woman with black hair, '– and my brother's wife, Lady Katra.' The latter gave him a cheerful wave: she was short and curvy, her skin as brown as Dorian's own, but offset by bright red hair. 'Though we are, of course, eager to meet your Inquisitor, I have no doubt that, in his absence, your company – and that of your charming Ambassador, of course –' he smiled politely at Josephine, who returned the expression with evident relief, '– will prove delightful. We have, after all, heard much about _everyone_ here.'        

If either Cullen or Josephine noticed that Taron paired this last remark with a small, sly glance at Dorian, they didn't show it. Even knowing that such things carried a different weight in the south, part of Dorian still flinched to learn that his preferences were the evident subject of gossip; but then, he supposed, he'd hardly been subtle about it. Shrugging off his unease, he lapsed into his Minrathous manners, and as Josephine rejoined the conversation – leaving Cullen, who was starting to look slightly pale, to see to their luggage and rooms – he lead them all on a tour of Skyhold.

Within half an hour, Dorian had established the following facts: that Katsa, in addition to being Taron's sister-in-law, was also Savia's sister; that Adric and Natry were both engaged in trying to woo Savia, though badly; and that, as Taron evidently possessed more wealth and connections than any of them, the other four were continually looking to him for approval. It was all so dizzyingly reminiscent of Tevinter that Dorian almost laughed, but through dint of long practice, he managed to keep a straight face, not even grimacing when, inevitably, Natry asked him if he practised blood magic.

'Only on full moons, my lord, and never when it rains,' said Dorian, who'd long since learned that most southerners were decidedly uninterested in the semantics of his magical practice. The quip earned him a round of scandalised laughter, though when Taron obliquely chided Natry for the question, the topic was quick to change. Only Josephine seemed troubled by the glib response, brows crinkling as she shot Dorian a look of concern, which Dorian, of necessity, ignored. The show of sympathy irked him: playing the Game as readily as she did, Josephine of all people should understand what he was doing.

'I apologise for Natry's ignorance,' Taron murmured, taking advantage of a narrowing stairwell to walk more closely with Dorian than might otherwise have been proper. His voice was low and warm, and if Dorian had been in any doubt before about the bann's intentions towards him, the discreet, accompanying brush to his lower back would have dispelled it. 'Certain parts of Denerim are vastly less cosmopolitan than they purport to be.'

'I take no offence,' said Dorian, demurely. It was a calculated response, and one that produced the intended effect; he listened for the catch in Taron's breath, then said, with a glance up from under his khol-lined lashes, 'I have no complaints to make of my present company.'

The flirtation was automatic, almost soothing in its familiarity. This was the sort of repartee that Dorian understood: coy looks, touches and double meanings shared with a man he'd likely never see again, all leading towards an unspoken something more. He fell into the rhythm of it as easily as the steps of every other formal dance he'd learned in adolescence, and Taron responded perfectly, a flash in his eyes that said he was more than interested.

It wasn't until much later, when they'd all retired to their respective rooms to dress for dinner, that Dorian stopped for long enough to ask himself what in the Maker's name he was doing.

 _Do you even truly want him?_ he thought, his inner voice dripping venom. _Or is it just that he's here and halfway willing?_

 _More willing than the Iron Bull, certainly,_ his other self shot back. _Or should I be celibate forever, just because some moralising Qunari thinks I'm too damaged to be worth the effort?_

He gripped the edge of his dresser, the wood cutting into his palm. Was he too damaged? Was that it? He wasn't sure he knew any more, or if it would make a difference if he did. He wasn't bound to Bull, no matter what some stupid part of him seemed to think, and anyway, the man had just lost his country forever: the last thing he needed on return was to deal with Dorian’s problems, too.

 _It makes sense,_ he told himself. _Sleeping with Taron. Something to take my mind off Bull, remind me what I am. Just meaningless sex. It is, after all, exactly what I wanted._

_Isn't it?_

Before he could answer that question – or avoid answering it, rather – there was a knock on his door.

'Dorian?' called Josephine. 'Are you decent?'

'As a general rule, no,' said Dorian, admitting her with a flourish. 'But for you, I'll make an effort.'

 Josephine smiled at him, nudging the door shut again with a fingertip. 'I... wanted to thank you, for helping with the Fereldens. It would have been a tricky thing, to manage them alone. I know it's not your favourite way to spend an evening, but under the circumstances, I greatly appreciate it.'

 Dorian felt a complex rush of affection. For all her constant politicking, there was a kindness to Josephine that remained undiminished by pragmatism, which was rare indeed for someone in her position. After Max's rejection, he'd spent all of five minutes trying to resent her for claiming the Inquisitor's affections, then promptly given it up as a lost cause. Though there were certainly moments when he wished the Ambassador was less persistently concerned with his wellbeing, it was a small price to pay for counting her a friend, and he felt suddenly, powerfully glad of it.

It was a heady thing, to be liked as well as wanted. To be useful.

'Think nothing of it,' he said, flicking his fingers airily. 'Not that Sera doesn't have her charms, and I'm certain you could find independent witnesses to attest that Solas and Blackwall have theirs, if you searched long enough –' Josephine suppressed a giggle at that, which made Dorian smile, '– but asking the three of them to politely entertain a snobbish gaggle of human aristocrats would, I think, be stretching the friendship.'

'That's putting it mildly,' Josephine said. And then her smile faltered – just a brief slip, but noticeable. She inhaled, looked away, and said, 'Am I – forgive me, I know you dislike prying – but am I correct in thinking that Bann Taron has expressed an interest in you, and you in him?'

Dorian stilled. 'You could say that,' he said, carefully.

Josephine, too, appeared to be weighing her words. 'It's just that, well. I will admit to being... surprised, under the circumstances. I had thought –' 

'I'm not his,' Dorian blurted.

Josephine's head jerked up. Dorian could feel himself flushing; hated that it took so little make him lose his cool. Breathing deeply, he brought himself back under control and said, as calmly as he could, 'By which I mean, I assume you're referring to the recent liaison between the Iron Bull and myself?'

Josephine inclined her head, a slight blush on her cheeks. Dorian sighed.

'It's not... we're not together, Josephine. Not any more, certainly, and never with any degree of exclusivity.' He tried for levity, managed a wry half-smile. 'Does my fickleness truly shock you? I hadn't thought it much of a secret.'

'I didn't – that is not –' Josephine looked away, a muscle working in her jaw. 'Forgive me,' she said at last, softly. 'I have overstepped.'

'Not at all,' lied Dorian. He put his Minrathous smile back on – the final piece in the arsenal of his wardrobe – and leaned in, kissing her lightly on the cheek. 'As always, your concern does you credit. Now.' He crooked an arm for her, gesturing towards the door. 'In the Inquisitor's absence, will you do me the honour of escorting me to dinner?'

Josephine smiled again – a small, bright thing, like a flower turned towards the sun. 'It would be my pleasure,' she said, and slipped her arm through his.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning in the endnotes.

Dinner was a mixed affair: the food, as always, was excellent, but even with Cullen and Solas roped in to round out the numbers – Sera had blown a raspberry at the suggestion, while Blackwall had paled and beaten a swift retreat to the armoury – the guests still outnumbered the hosts. Josephine sat the head of the table, doing her talented best to keep things pleasant, with Katra on her left and Adric on her right. Cullen was placed between Katra and Savia, which position was both a kindness and a cruelty: kindness, because the ladies were well-disposed towards him, and cruelty, because Savia, seemingly with Taron’s tacit encouragement, had opted to slight both Adric and Natry by flirting outrageously with the Commander. Poor Cullen looked like a cornered deer; Dorian would have helped, but he wasn’t seated close enough to make much difference. Solas, however, was doing a surprisingly good job of picking up the slack: he was opposite Cullen, between the fuming brothers, his preternatural calmness and quiet questions forcing them to engage politely.

Which left Taron to sit beside Savia and opposite Dorian, whose sole neighbour, Natry, was too distracted by Cullen, Solas and Savia to pay him any attention. This arrangement seemed to please Taron no end, for though he murmured occasionally to Savia, stirring the pot of her provocation, his attention remained otherwise fixed on Dorian. It was… flattering, certainly, and if Dorian felt any resurgence of his earlier unease, he squashed it fiercely, determined to be a credit to Josephine and the Inquisition both. Bann Taron, after all, was a handsome man, and as Dorian was already pretending to be the Minrathous version of himself, it was hardly out of his way to extend the façade to flirtation as well as manners.

Even so, the first time Taron’s foot brushed his ankle, he almost yelped. Instead, he swallowed whatever remark he’d been about to make and blushed, staring fixedly at his dinner. The Bann laughed delightedly, smiling as he leaned back in his chair.

‘The lighting in here agrees with you, altus. Very fetching.’

‘You’re too kind,’ said Dorian, and wondered at himself, that he suddenly felt so lost.

The night turned strangely dreamlike, moments either lagging or speeding, until he lost all sense of time. He flirted with Taron through reflex, laughing at all the right moments, but though he ate and drank – mostly drank; the bann politely refilled his cup whenever it emptied, and Dorian continued to lift it, needing something to do with his hands – he felt curiously empty. By the time the last course was done, he was flushed and dizzy, the bann’s attention an almost physical weight. As they cleared the table, Cullen pled his excuses for an early night, while Solas, to Josephine’s clear surprise, had managed to engage both Adric and Savia with tales of Denerim’s history. The three of them proceeded to the library, leaving Natry, thoroughly unimpressed, to stalk off to his own rooms, muttering darkly above meddling elves, while Katra, who’d taken a shine to the Ambassador, accompanied Josephine to her study.

‘Would you be so kind as to lead me to my room?’ Taron asked, voice low. ‘I fear I’ve lost my bearings.’

‘Of course,’ said Dorian. ‘What sort of host would I be, to leave you unattended?’

They must have spoken more on the way up the stairs, but Dorian couldn’t retain the memory: everything whited out when Taron snuck an arm around him, kissing along his neck. _You wanted this_ , he told himself, eyes fluttering shut as Taron pulled him into the guest room. Dorian shuddered, trying to reciprocate as Taron claimed his mouth, but though he gripped the other man’s shoulders, somehow it felt more like pushing than pulling, part of him rigidly conscious that, as muscular as the Ferelden was, he was still much smaller than Bull.

His stomach flipped at that, and through the haze of too much wine, he realised – sharply, belatedly – that he didn’t want to be there.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, voice shaking. ‘I didn’t mean –’

‘Of course you did,’ purred Taron, and kissed him again, so firmly that it didn’t occur to Dorian to struggle.

‘No,’ he said instead, when the bann next broke away. He tried to catch Taron’s eye – a difficult prospect, when the man was intent on Dorian’s neck, hands roaming across the buckles of his shirt – and settled for gripping his forearms, trying to push him back.

‘My lord, please, we shouldn’t –’

‘Of course we should,’ said Taron, biting at Dorian’s throat. He gasped at the pressure, breathing gone ragged with wine and panic.

‘No,’ he whispered again, but Taron didn’t listen, and as the bann unlaced him, he flashed back to that last, awful conversation with the Bull, the timbre of his rumbling voice as he’d said, far too gently, _Anyone who'd say yes to what you're asking doesn't deserve to be in room with you, let alone share your bed._      

Almost, Dorian laughed, though the sound that emerged was closer to a sob. _But I’m not saying yes_ , he thought wildly, _I thought I was, but I’m not, and now it’s too late –_

‘Needy, aren’t you?’ Taron murmured, and at that single word, _needy_ , every part of Dorian but the one that mattered went limp. _Needy slut. You love it just like this._ He’d heard so many iterations of it over the years, it scarcely mattered that he no longer remembered the name of the man who’d said it first; only his face, and the way he’d pressed Dorian into the mattress, taking and taking and taking. He’d wanted it then, believed it then. Was he really so different now?

‘Kneel for me, altus. Show me what else that clever mouth can do.’

‘Please,’ said Dorian, meaning _please, stop_ , the word slipping out of its own accord. ‘Please, I can’t –’

‘Shh,’ said Taron, pushing him down at the shoulder. His smile was dark and hungry, and for a piercing instant, Dorian almost fought him. Even with his magic dulled by alcohol, he was still strong, still capable. He could have thrown him off. But what was the point? He’d joined the party in aide of helping Josephine, and if, having spent the entire evening flirting with Taron, he suddenly turned around and struck him, everything she’d worked for would be undone. And anyway, Bull didn’t want him, no matter what Dorian wished. Why not let Taron have his use? It was only a night.

‘It’s all right,’ said Taron, sensing his hesitation. ‘You don’t have to be shy, dear one. I know just what you need from me.’ And he pushed again, the barest increase of pressure.

Dorian closed his eyes, and knelt.

 

*

 

They’d made good time from the Storm Coast, all things considered, but had been delayed in the final stretch by a rockslide, losing several hours as they picked their way around the mud and rubble. As such, though Skyhold was only a few hours distant, they’d opted to make camp, not wanting to attempt the last, most treacherous stretch of mountain road in darkness. It was a cold, crisp night, the stars unobscured by cloud, with only the faintest green-tinged slice of distance to remind them of the Fade.

Cole, somewhat predictably, had vanished when they started eating, leaving the Inquisitor, Bull and Vivienne to share a silence which, after several days on the road, was more companionable than awkward. Nearby, the Chargers argued quietly amongst themselves; or quietly by their standards, anyway. Bull snorted, amused despite himself. Being cast from the Qun, his purpose in life revoked, reminded him of losing his fingers: an absence defined by an aching itch that insisted, against all reason, that there’d been no loss at all; just a net gain in raw discomfort. At least the fingers were visibly absent: here, he looked around for signs of loss, and saw only Dalish shoving Skinner, Krem’s bold smile as he tried to coax the Inquisitor into a game of Wicked Grace.

‘Oh, all right,’ said Max, groaning in theatrical response to this last, and with a parting clap to Bull’s shoulder, he ambled over to join the Chargers, leaving Bull alone with Vivienne.

Briefly, Bull met his lieutenant’s gaze. Another time, it would’ve been odd that Krem hadn’t asked him to join in, too, but Krem had an uncanny eye for Bull’s moods, and seemed to understand that he needed space – not because he regretted saving the Chargers, but because of how strongly he didn’t. The contradiction tugged at him, and so he stared instead at the fire, rubbing his hands and wondering, in a double-edged bid to distract himself, what Dorian was doing.

‘Look at him,’ Vivienne murmured, lifting her chin towards Max, who’d just put Grim in a friendly headlock. ‘He certainly has the common touch.’

‘Should I be taking offence at that?’ Bull asked, genuinely curious.

‘If you like,’ said Vivienne. ‘I only meant that he has the knack of being liked; of making himself into what or whoever the situation requires. Except, of course, that _making_ implies artifice, and so far as I can tell, he has none.’ She shook her head, half praise, half censure, a small smile tugging at her lips. ‘No wonder he’s drawn to Josephine. They’re quite the pair. A complementary match.’

‘That they are,’ said Bull.

‘Of course,’ she added, glancing at him, ‘it’s just as often opposites who attract.’

‘Well, sure, that’s one way to explain whatever Cass and Varric have going.’

Vivienne sighed. ‘My dear, might I offer you some advice?’

‘Sure,’ said Bull, resigned. ‘Why not.’

‘You are a singularly open person,’ Vivienne said. ‘Emotionally, that is. You might dissemble with facts, but never people. And though it does you credit, it renders you rather blind to the motives of those who do otherwise, not through any love of deception, but because they lie, first and foremost, to themselves.’

Bull blinked at her, not certain where she was coming from. ‘Is that, uh –’

‘Dorian,’ said Vivienne, her quiet gaze fixed on the fire. ‘You’re giving him space. You think it’s the right thing to do, that he understands you’re offering him a courtesy. But he doesn’t.’ She looked at him then, and though her face was still, her eyes were deep and sad. ‘Take it from one who’s used to being pushed into margins: space, to Dorian Pavus, is a synonym for abandonment. What else could it possibly mean to him, when it’s never meant anything else?’

‘That’s not –’ said Bull, and swallowed, bare skin burning from more than the fire’s heat. Absurd, that discussing Dorian should hurt more than the loss of the Qun, but all at once, he remembered the look on Dorian’s face those two last times he’d left – as though he were terrified, not of staying, but of wanting to. Bull’s heart lurched in his chest. He stared at Vivienne, aware that she’d laid herself open, as she so seldom did, to tell him what he needed to hear, but too disarmed by the implications to marshal a response.

‘It’s all right, my dear,’ she said, and just like that, her mask was back in place, her smile turned calm and impersonal. ‘There are, after all, far worse mistakes than being _too_ considerate.’ And before Bull could answer that, either, she rose and headed towards her tent without a backwards glance.

Bull stayed sitting, rubbing a hand down his face. Was he still himself, without the Qun? In its absence, could he trust himself not to cause more and worse damage to those he shouldn’t have cared for in the first place? _I never should have left Skyhold_ , he thought, and almost laughed when his very next thought was an answering verse from the Prayer for the Dead, the words a litany stripped of their former comfort. _Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. Maraas shokra._

Out loud, he murmured, ‘The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. There is nothing to struggle against. Heh. Oh, damn. _Damn_.’ He knuckled his remaining eye, then propped his chin on his palm. _What a mess. What a stupid mess._

‘The Iron Bull?’

It was Cole, the spirit-boy sliding up beside him, pale face pinched and worried. Bull sighed; the damn kid could probably sense him brooding from miles away.

‘Yeah, Cole?’

‘I’m trying to learn, I am, but there’s so much hurt, it compounds itself, the panacea rendered painful. He told me I had to deliver it right, or it wouldn’t work, but I can’t find the words, and you said I wasn’t to speak to him.’

‘Who are we talking about, exactly?’

‘Dorian.’ Cole hunkered down, his thin arms wrapped around his knees. ‘If I say nothing, his hurt will end, but if I don’t, then yours is endless. Seas don’t change, but the moon still rules them. If I was a moon, would you heed me?’

Something cold and ugly prickled along Bull’s spine. ‘Is Dorian all right?’

‘Not all right. Not right at all. He thinks he never was, or will be. Thinks he’s broken.’ Cole shifted onto his knees, a spraddled thing, and slipped into his thought-thief voice, both soft and sad. ‘I am the crime. I commit myself, and cannot be forgiven. Bull doesn’t want me. Why would anyone, except to use? Write a note, so they’ll know I’m gone. Then jump. A long way down, but cleaner than cutting. Maker, I’m so lost. Maybe I should’ve let him change me, after all.’

Bull had no word for the noise he made, as though his throat were tearing. The whole camp stilled, staring as he surged to his feet and grabbed his things.

‘Bull?’ called Max, worried. ‘What is it? What did Cole say?’

‘I have to go. Now.’ He started walking into the darkness, fighting the urge to run.

‘Bull!’ Max yelled, and raced up beside him, stumbling in his effort to keep pace. ‘Whatever this is, I need to know –’

‘It’s Dorian,’ Bull said, voice breaking on the name. ‘Boss, please, I can’t lose anything else –’

‘Go,’ Max said. ‘We’ll follow you.’

Bull went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: sexual assault. Though Dorian initially consents to going with an OMC, he changes his mind and is ignored. Not graphic, but with heavy implications.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Chapter begins with a description of rape. Short, but specific.

Dorian curled against the battlements, blue with cold and bruises. Taron hadn’t been gentle with him, but that was largely his own fault: he’d been too passive, quiet and still, and the bann had wanted to hear him. Dorian had been slapped and choked until he was sobbing, throat raw as Taron thumbed his tears and fucked his mouth, and when he’d finally bent him over, neither the prep nor the sex had been much different.  

Afterwards, he’d meant to go back to his room, but he wasn’t dressed enough to risk an encounter with Josephine, and something about just sitting down felt easier. Up here, there was nobody to see or judge him: only the silent mountains, glimpsed through stone. He’d thought about leaving a letter to explain himself, but that would mean going to his room, and in any case, he didn’t know what to say. Not that it truly mattered: his absence would be noticed eventually, and so long as he left his shoes behind, it ought to be clear where he’d gone.

It was selfish, Dorian knew, but when had he ever been otherwise? He ached all over, heartsick and sore. He’d joined the Inquisition to do some good, but there was nothing he contributed that others didn’t do better. Solas’s magic was more pertinent, Vivienne’s more respectable; Max closed rifts with his naked hand, and Cole, for all his strangeness, was magically unique, and therefore invaluable. Josephine, Cullen, Leliana, Cassandra – all of them contributed a wealth of allies and far-flung connections that Dorian, with his outcast status, couldn’t hope to rival. Varric had Garret Hawke’s friendship and a first-hand knowledge of Corypheus; Sera ran the Red Jenny network; Blackwall represented the Wardens; and Bull, even lacking his Ben-Hassrath status, still controlled the Chargers. Set against such fellows, what was Dorian but a second-rate necromancer, dissolute and damaged?

Timing, that was the thing. No point jumping in the dark: there was too great a chance of smashing himself on a ledge or snowbank, wounded but not dead. Wait too long, and he ran the same risk of premature discovery as if he used magic to light his fall. Skyhold never truly slept, and Dorian had no wish for an audience. Better to try at early dawn, which offered the most visibility for the least chance of onlookers. _Sensible. Yes._   

Shivering, he settled in to wait.

 

*

 

Bull reached Skyhold in a lather, resting a hand on the wall. The guard let him in without question, blinking owlishly in the pale grey light. All by itself, his complacency spoke volumes: if something was wrong, it was wrong with Dorian alone, and Bull didn’t like the thought of that one bit. Yet even having come so far, forging uphill in the snowy dark on a rush of fear and stubbornness, he still had a moment of hesitation, wondering if he hadn’t overreacted. After all, Cole had shown up for Dorian at Redcliffe, too, and as awful as that was, it hadn’t been life or death. Then Bull shook his head, remembering his conversation with Vivienne. Even if Dorian wasn’t in danger, that didn’t mean he ought to be left alone.

Too tired to run, Bull strode through the keep to Dorian’s chamber, heart in his throat as he tried the door. It was unlocked, but when he pushed inside, the room was empty, the bed pristine as if it had never been slept in.

Bull swallowed, forcing himself to think rationally. Dorian might be any number of places at this time of night – the library, the kitchens, the Herald’s Rest – but Cole had said _jump_ and _long way down_ , and that suggested the battlements.

Anxious now, Bull turned and started walking, wanting to be wrong yet knowing, in some deep-set part of himself, that he wasn’t. He felt as if a lodestone was lodged in his chest, pulling him inexorably forward, prompting him to take this turn, that stair, leading him through the mazelike bulk of Skyhold like some secret, improbable map.

And then, as the first pale streaks of colour snuck into the sky, he found Dorian.

The mage was half-naked, shirtless and barefoot, tucked into a cold, high corner, knees beneath his chin. His eyes were shut, face turned to the stone. He looked small, utterly unlike himself, and when Bull noticed the bruising – smudges on his cheek and jaw, dark circles on his arms – he fought the urge to roar. _Someone did this,_ Bull thought, furious and appalled. _Someone hurt him, and I wasn’t here to stop it._

Biting the inside of his mouth, he edged closer, crouching down at Dorian’s eye level, willing the mage to look at him. Bruised, undressed, ashamed, alone: it didn’t take a Ben-Hassrath to guess what had happened, even if he didn’t know who was responsible. Guilt welled up in him, hot and sharp _. He thought he deserved this, when he came to me. If I’d stayed, would it still have happened?_

‘Dorian?’ Bull said, voice rough. ‘Dorian, are you there?’

Dorian shuddered, sluggish and dull, and all at once, Bull realised the mage was freezing. Being largely impervious to temperature himself, it was sometimes easy to forget that Dorian’s constant complaints about being cold were more than an affectation. His lips were blue, and when he finally looked up, his gaze was vacant, breath rattling on the exhale.

Bull’s heart clenched. ‘Dorian, I need to take you inside. I need to carry you. Can I do that, _kadan_?’ The endearment slipped out of its own accord; another thing to think about later. ‘Do I have permission?’

‘You’re here,’ croaked Dorian. ‘Why are you – Bull?’

‘Please.’ Bull hovered a hand over Dorian’s, throat tight. ‘Please, let me help you.’

 ‘All right,’ Dorian whispered, and with a noise of broken relief, Bull pulled him into his arms.


	9. Chapter 9

The world went by in flashes, dreamlike and distant. Or maybe it really was a dream; Dorian couldn’t think of another reason why Bull would suddenly have materialised on the battlements, let alone wanted to pick him up. And yet he was being carried, curled against a warm, broad chest as voices sounded in the background, bouncing on the hard stone walls of Skyhold. One of them sounded like Josephine, sad and angry, which pricked his guilt enough that he felt moved to answer.

‘My fault,’ he mumbled, trying to turn his head. ‘Being dramatic –’

‘ _No_ ,’ said Bull, the word a furious rumble. Whatever else dreams did, Dorian thought vaguely, they didn’t vibrate, which made the Qunari’s presence unmistakable, solid and scarred and real. ‘Don’t blame yourself for what that _filth_ –’ he broke off into a string of Qunlat, choppy and guttural.

Absurdly, Dorian chuckled. ‘Not sure I caught that last part,’ he murmured, pressing his face to Bull’s chest. ‘You’ll have to repeat it for me.’

A big hand gently smoothed his hair. ‘Ask me again when you’re warm.’

With that, Dorian sighed, drifting back into strangeness. His feet and hands and ears were numb, skin pricking all over with pins and needles, and everywhere Taron had left his mark, he throbbed. Such a stupid thing, that mages struggled to heal themselves. Even if such magic was his speciality, it would’ve been like asking a broken tool to hammer itself together. Solas or Vivienne would have to help him, assuming they were amenable to doing so. _Now, there’s a choice: which one would judge me least?_ Both would do it subtly, but to different effect: Vivienne with professional detachment, Solas with otherworldly disappointment. Not that he wanted anyone else to see him like this, but if he had to choose –

‘Vivienne,’ he said, eyes closed. ‘Not Solas. If she’ll come, I mean. If not –’

‘She’ll come. You might have to wait a bit, but she’ll come.’

Dorian laughed weakly. ‘You don’t know that.’     

‘Yeah I do,’ Bull said, softly. He turned sideways, shifting Dorian’s weight. They’d entered his room, he realised – Dorian’s room, not Bull’s – where some considerate soul had drawn a bath for him, the big tub steaming beside a lit fire. A simple domestic kindness, which meant it was likely Josephine’s doing, or Bull’s. Dorian shuddered and turned away, wanting so desperately to be warm and clean and safe, but not at all sure he deserved it.

‘You don’t know what I did,’ he whispered, shivering as Bull sat down on his bed and leaned against the headboard, Dorian cradled to his chest. ‘I flirted with him, I went with him, I didn’t fight, I didn’t –’

‘You shouldn’t have had to fight, _kadan_.’ Bull’s voice was at once both heavy and soft, like a goosedown comforter. ‘If you said no to him even once – hell, if you never actually said yes – he should’ve stopped. Listened. Let you go, if you wanted gone, or changed things if you didn’t. Anything else is rape.’

‘You Qunari have some strange ideas,’ said Dorian, shakily.

‘Stranger than some, perhaps. Less strange than others.’

‘I’m sorry they let you go.’

Briefly, Bull’s chest stilled. ‘Their loss,’ he said, and shrugged, and breathed again. And then, voice oddly quiet, ‘I’m sorry I ever let you think I didn’t want you. I shouldn’t have gone. Should’ve – ah, hell. You don’t need to hear this now.’

Hope was a weed: no matter how often he wrenched it out by the roots, it always grew back again. For the first time, Dorian met Bull’s gaze. It ought to have been impossible for a one-eyed, sweep-horned, scar-lipped mercenary to look, of all things, tender, but somehow, the Iron Bull managed it. ‘Does that mean,’ said Dorian, and paused, licking his bruised lips. ‘Does that mean you want me still?’

‘If you’ll have me,’ Bull said, smiling. ‘Yeah, you dumb ‘vint. Of course I want you. Hell, I just ran up a mountain for you, and you know I hate running up mountains.’

'Don’t we all,’ said Dorian.

It hurt to smile. He did it anyway.     

 

*

 

For the second time, but by no means the last, Bull carefully undressed Dorian, fingertips soothing gently over every bruise and scratch. Dorian made a choked noise and looked away, eyes hidden against his arm.

‘Hey,’ Bull murmured, kissing his cheek. ‘Don’t be ashamed. Look at me?’ Dorian looked; Bull smoothed a thumb between his brows. ‘There you are. It’s all right, _kadan_. I’ve got you.’

He lifted Dorian into the bath, which was just the right side of scalding. Dorian hissed and groaned and slid all the way beneath the water, coming up again with droplets running down his cheeks. He shut his eyes and exhaled, bruised lips trembling.

And then he spoke, voice low, and told Bull all about Bann Taron of Nineways.

Bull listened silently, or tried to; despite his best efforts, the odd growl still slipped out. Whenever it happened, Dorian huffed a laugh, as though drawing strength from Bull’s indignation, and kept going. Sitting beside the tub on Dorian’s sumptuous rug, it was the easiest thing in the world for Bull to put an arm around the mage’s shoulders, carding fingers through his hair as Dorian leaned on his shoulder. Easier, certainly, than storming off through Skyhold to rip the bann’s head off, which would likely have caused a diplomatic incident. Not that Bull cared much for diplomacy, if killing the man was what Dorian wanted, but until or unless his ‘vint expressed a preference, Bull wasn’t about to pre-empt him, regardless of how personally satisfying he would’ve found it.

And besides which, Josephine had already had the bann locked up, pending Leliana’s return from the Hinterlands. There were decided advantages to having a spymaster who was on first-name terms with the king of Ferelden, and asking him for the right to deal sharply with rapist nobles was evidently one of them.

Bull could live with that, if Dorian could.

When Dorian finally fell silent, Bull kissed his temple and told him he was beautiful; that it wasn’t his fault; that he wanted him; that his friends needed him; that the Inquisition was better for having him in it. Dorian made a choking noise, but didn’t argue, and under the circumstances, Bull was going to count that a victory.

Shortly afterwards, Josephine knocked on the door, her light triple-rap distinctive despite her silence.

‘She can come in,’ said Dorian, in response to Bull’s questioning look.

‘Come in, Josie,’ Bull called out, and in stepped the Ambassador, clutching a blue cloth bag tied shut with a green silk ribbon. Her eyes were suspiciously red, but her back was straight, and though she acknowledged both of them, it was Dorian she spoke to.

‘I brought you some salts,’ she said, holding out the bag. ‘For the bath. They’re Antivan. You dissolve them, and they soothe your muscles. Also, there’s some soap and a cloth, I wasn’t sure what you already had, but just in case –’

‘Thank you,’ Dorian said. He was staring at her, jaw working soundlessly. ‘I – thank you.’

Josephine handed the bag to Bull, then bit her lip, tense and awkward. Looking between the two of them, Bull suppressed a sigh and said, as gently as he could, ‘Not that it’s my place, but if either of you is thinking of apologising for something that’s not your fault, you might want to wait ‘till Dorian’s wearing pants.’

Both of them started guiltily, Josephine ducking her head in acknowledgement. ‘A fair point,’ she said, and smiled at Bull. ‘I’ll send Vivienne up when she arrives; otherwise, I’ll leave you to it.’

Dorian watched her go, then frowned at the door. ‘Why should she want to apologise? It’s hardly her fault.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Bull unlaced the bag, removing the cloth and soap, then tipping in the salts. ‘You humans have some curious theories about blame. Now lie back, _kadan_. I want to see if the bath salts froth or bubble.’

‘You know,’ said Dorian, reaching up to cup Bull’s jaw, ‘for a savage Qunari, you’re peculiarly sweet.’

‘And for a decadent ‘vint,’ said Bull, tipping the salts into the tub, ‘you’re… pretty decadent, actually. But I can live with that.’ And then he laughed, delighted, as the salts began to fizz.


	10. Chapter 10

When Vivienne finally arrived, Bull was kneeling behind the tub on a velvet pillow, massaging soap into Dorian’s hair. It ought to have been embarrassing, but Dorian felt warm and light, too tired to care about modesty. Vivienne was calm and practised, touching him only lightly, and if her eyes widened a little when her magic probed the extent of his hurts, she was kind enough not to say anything. Instead, she healed him in silence, two fingers pressed against his pulse, as deftly professional as he’d ever known.

‘You’re very good at that,’ he murmured, unable to keep from sighing as the dull pain ebbed away.

‘I’ve had plenty of practice.’ Vivienne withdrew her hand, and when she looked him over, Dorian saw no sign that she was judging him, silently or otherwise. _It seems I’ve misjudged her, too_. ‘There. I’d recommend rest for the next few days, but otherwise, you’re whole as I can make you.’

‘My thanks,’ said Dorian. His breathing felt easier, all the roughness in his throat receding like mist in sunlight. Even so, he couldn’t quite quell the part of him that felt compelled to remember why such ministrations were necessary, and in an awful flash, he choked again, the sting of tears on his cheeks. He looked away, not wanting Vivienne to see, though Bull seemed to know immediately what was wrong, resuming his massage with firm, slow sweeps of his thumbs.

‘I’ll see myself out,’ said Vivienne, rising with her usual elegance.

She left as quietly as she’d come, the door clicking shut behind her.

‘I don’t know what to do with this,’ said Dorian, into the silence.

‘With what?’

‘Remembering.’ He shut his eyes, leaning into the massage. ‘We fight demons, Bull. Actual demons. I’ve been in so many scraps, I hardly stop dreaming of it, but these days, they’re barely even nightmares. Just… noise. I’ll feel blood on my face, in my mouth, be hemmed against the wall in some dank, dark tomb, and it’s frightening, yes, but there’s a calm to it, too, a curious sort of detachment, like none of it really matters. I’ll die or I won’t, but at least I’ll do it fighting. Even after a proper battle, it never takes me like _this_.’ He waved a soap-rimed hand at the fire, the tub, the door, Bull, as if to indicate his decadence in needing any of them. ‘But sex – men – it crawls inside me. Turns me about. It always does, no matter how I beg for it, because afterwards, I always –’ he turned, staring pleadingly at Bull, ‘– except for you, do you realise that? I was ashamed of wanting you, but not of what we’d done. You never hurt me, nothing you did soured when I was spent. And we call _you_ savages.’

Bull stared at him, stricken. ‘Dorian,’ he said, that deep voice a soft gulp. ‘You – your lovers always hurt you? Hurt you like _he_ did?’

‘No,’ said Dorian, gripping the tub. He looked away, back to the water. ‘And yes. Not like him, not anywhere near as badly, but always… I took what I could get. And it was mostly good, I’m not claiming otherwise – sometimes very good, in fact – but so long as they got what they wanted, they didn’t much care if I could say the same, so even if I could and did, it was never _only_ what I wanted, do you understand? Always a trade. A pleasurable commerce. Well, mostly pleasurable.’ He made a noise that failed to sound like laughter. ‘Funny, how I thought it was enough.’  

He tensed, bracing for Bull to be scornful, to blame him anew in light of this information. But Bull said, softly, ‘I thought the Qun was enough, too.’

Dorian’s pulse was loud in his ears. He didn’t dare turn around, but let out a tiny sight of relief when Bull, still talking in that same, quiet rumble, resumed his massage, big hands easing the knots from Dorian’s shoulders.

‘You grow up with a certain way of thinking, it’s hard to see outside of it. With the Ben-Hassrath, I learned – I was taught – to be flexible about a lot of things, and I always figured sex was one of them. Humans and elves and dwarves, you’ve all got such hangups about who can do what to whom and when, all these mechanical, contractual obligations, and you twist yourselves up in knots over getting it right, but at least with the tamassrans, we’re honest, right?’ He snorted. ‘That’s what I thought, anyway.’

Dorian didn’t know what to say to that. They’d never really discussed the Qun in any detail, and now Bull had gone and landed himself outside of it. He was on the brink of venturing a platitude when Bull dug his thumb into a particularly sore muscle, and what came out instead was an embarrassing mewl.

Bull huffed a laugh. ‘There you go,’ he murmured, pleased, and as thought that had been the perfect response, he started to talk again, hands still working skilfully. ‘I’ve been with a lot of people over the years. Friends, strangers, friends of strangers. Colleagues. Employers. Even enemies, sometimes. Or at least, they started out that way.’ He chuckled in reminiscence, and despite everything, Dorian felt his own lips twitch in amused response. ‘Never felt like I had anything to fear from anyone in bed, physically – I mean, I’m massive, I’m immune to most poisons, I’m trained in mind-tricks. But attachment… I got real good at telling myself that attachment was a human thing, or an elvish thing, or a dwarven thing, whichever applied most at the time. Didn’t like to think about Vashoth, because it cut too close, but the rest…’

He trailed off, hands dropping from Dorian’s shoulders, and when Dorian turned to look at him, Bull’s eye was downcast.

  ‘All the sex I’ve had,’ Bull said, ‘I’ve always made it about what the other guy wanted. Or girl. Whoever. Acted like I didn’t –’ his breathing hitched, the most un-Bullish hesitation Dorian had ever heard from him, ‘– didn’t want anything for just myself, or need it. Because it would’ve been selfish, somehow, even though I expected it of every other partner.’ He raised his horned head and met Dorian’s gaze. ‘I never trained as a tamassran,’ he said, voice perfectly steady. ‘But I’ve sure been acting like one. Sexual relief for all of Thedas!’ He smiled, flashfire, the expression melting into something raw and warm and stripped as, achingly slow, he grazed a calloused knuckle against Dorian’s cheek. ‘Don’t want to be your tamassran, though. I just want you. For me. Because of who you are.’

Dorian flushed warmer than the bathwater, his pulse ticking up so violently, he felt its beat in root of his tongue.

‘I’m fairly sure,’ said Dorian, ‘that I already said yes to you. Or did I only imagine it?’

‘You did,’ said Bull, with a grin that was equal parts soft and sheepish. ‘Just wanted you to know you’re special to me, is all, and that nothing you’ve said is going to shock me into thinking otherwise. Here, you want to get out? I’ll help you dry off.’

Dorian did, at that, largely because it was easier than answering, and so let Bull engulf him an enormous towel, eyes closing as the Qunari gently rubbed him dry. What he felt for Bull was something bigger and more complex than he could readily name, and not just because of what had passed on the battlements. It had been growing since they’d met, if Dorian was honest, trust and humour and subtle understanding, and as Bull tucked him into bed, he tugged the Qunari down beside him, curling across his chest like a cat in a sunbeam. Bull went willingly, one thumb rubbing gentle circles in the sensitive skin behind Dorian’s ear, the other pulling the blanket over the pair of them.

‘Bull?’

‘Yeah?’

‘What does _kadan_ mean?’

‘Literally or colloquially?’

‘Both, if you please.’

Bull shifted against him, rearranging their bodies until Dorian’s head was tucked beneath his chin. Bull was a furnace, radiating heat, and for the first time since leaving Tevinter, Dorian didn’t feel cold at all.

‘Literally, it means _the centre of my chest_. Colloquially –’ he hesitated, breathing in as Dorian turned to look up at him, ‘– colloquially, it means _my heart_.’

Absurdly, Dorian smiled, running the palm of his hand across Bull’s scarred pectoral. ‘Your heart, it seems to me, is unusually well-protected.’

‘It is,’ said Bull, voice suddenly husky. ‘Is, and always will be. Dorian –’

‘Shh,’ he murmured, kissing the nearest piece of skin. ‘None of that, _amatus_. We’ve both been foolish enough already. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?’

‘Whatever you say, _kadan_ ,’ Bull said, and dropped a kiss on Dorian’s hair, as light as a first page turned.


End file.
